


Heart of a Saint, Life of a Sinner

by gozenichiji



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Established Relationship, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Overdosing, Suicide Attempt, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-02-23 10:09:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23409892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gozenichiji/pseuds/gozenichiji
Summary: Alec makes it through the Latimer and Sandbrook case through pure spite alone, so as soon as the cases come to an end, his heart gives out.
Relationships: Alec Hardy & Daisy Hardy, Alec Hardy & Ellie Miller, Daisy Hardy & Ellie Miller, Paul Coates & Alec Hardy, Paul Coates & Daisy Hardy, Paul Coates & Ellie Miller, Paul Coates/Alec Hardy
Comments: 20
Kudos: 42





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mangovandium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangovandium/gifts).



> Hello! This is my first publication on AO3. Originally me and LemonChomps have made it a competition to see who can write more heart-wrenching Major Character Death, though we have decided to collaborate. What I hope for y'all, is to be able to relate in some way or another, and see where the story leads! I encourage constructive criticism; I don't normally talk formal. - Gozenichiji
> 
> Hey y'all I'm back again ajdfjksdfj - mangovandium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alec makes it through the Latimer and Sandbrook case through pure spite alone, so as soon as the cases come to an end, his heart gives out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This is my first publication on AO3. Originally me and LemonChomps have made it a competition to see who can write more heart-wrenching Major Character Death, though we have decided to collaborate. What I hope for y'all, is to be able to relate in some way or another, and see where the story leads! I encourage constructive criticism; I don't normally talk formal. - Gozenichiji
> 
> Hey y'all I'm back again ajdfjksdfj - LemonChomps

It takes a final confession from Ricky Gillespie until both he and Ellie sigh with relief– rather, poorly masked fatigue. He can't bring himself to talk as Ellie says the words that would put finality on his purgatory;

"Ricky Gillespie, you are under arrest for murder and obstruction of justice.” As handcuffs click, Alec Hardy feels chains fall from his wrists.

Two years.

He’d vowed never to let go, yet it’s finally over— 

He can only watch as the man he had once trusted, lent his heart to, is finally escorted to a holding cell by an officer, begrudgingly joining Lee and Claire. Legs about to give out, he leans on the wall, sinking further to the floor in disbelief; he didn't expect to make it this far. Staring at the tile floor, it takes a while for it to sink in, as his vision blurs—he dismisses it as stress, nothing to do with the heart—he’s shocked from his reverie, as a familiar warm hand makes it across his shoulder.

"We've done it, Miller!" He inhales sharply, "We cracked Sandbrook. Couldn't have done it without you-" He broods distantly, eyes shining with tears. "Suppose that means I've done my penance, then." Worn, he cracks a small smile. 

"We really did.” Ellie knows how much the case meant to the detective, but most of all, for the families who never got an answer—though quietly, she wishes that the same could have happened for her. “Though, there's something you're wrong about, sir– Alec." She says, as he faces her in doubt. She didn’t know if it was from her statement or her choice to address him on a first-name basis.

"We aren't all alone.” She stands up, brandishing an air of weary confidence. “Maybe that's what you think, but it can't be that way." None of them say anything further, staring at each other in familiar, awkward air. In the silent hallway, he hopes that it's not another lie Ellie Miller tries to tell herself each day. Heaving himself upwards, he nearly falls over; it makes paranoia flash through his mind. _Again_ , he thinks, this case has been a lot. He’s lived through this, it will–he hopes–be better. He hopes that won’t be a lie he’d tell himself each day. 

Brogue thicker than usual, he composes himself. “I’ll just head back to the interrogation room again, ‘ave to retrieve the recordings from earlier.” Brows furrowed in mild worry, Ellie notes shortness in his breath– it worries her that he’s pushing himself too hard right after his operation.

She barks back a laugh. “Must have been a lot, isn’t it Hardy, to finally solve the case.” She too, carries a tone of disbelief, that a case left cold for years, finally solved; she can’t possibly imagine how Alec feels. He looks away, bites his lip.

“Wouldn’t have, without you, Miller.” He walks over to the door of the interrogation room, not looking back.  
“Sure you’ll be alright there?” She asks meekly, her voice carrying an undertone of concern. She didn’t know how to react with this, but she knew he’d tell her she was too overbearing, and—

“I’m fine.”

Absent-mindedly maneuvering himself inside, Alec does not realize how lost he is in thought until he finds himself alone in the interrogation room, files in his shaking hands. Carefully, he sits down—he ignores a soft wheeze that he lets out—as he places the folder down, hesitantly opens to see the contents; seeing how his name is engraved; Senior Investigating Officer, responsible for the loss of major evidence. Suddenly his eyes travel downwards, exposing the gruesome details of the investigation. He was done, wasn’t he? But why—

 _Why on Earth would they treat a child like that?_ He thinks desperately; facts were plainly stated, on reports and recordings–he realizes that one could never truly understand what went on in anyone’s heart. 

With careful hands, he snaps open his wallet, revealing a photo of Pippa that's worn on the edges, familiar to touch as he pulls it carefully, placing it over the first page as he finally slams the thick paper binding shut.

_It’s over._

…

Hand aching, Ellie Miller sits at a nearby desk. Time slips past her mind—that’s until she drops a pen to the floor, the clatter snapping her from the drone of paperwork. Trying to regain awareness of her surroundings, she quickly glances at the clock. The drastic change makes her frown—it tells her that Alec’s been in the interrogation room for far too long. Brow furrowed in worry, she walks over to the door, contemplating if she should enter, worrying if she’d intrude on an emotional moment—the toll it had taken on Alec for the entirety of the case made that understandable. Yet—

Timidly, she enters to find the case files scattered on the table, pushed at an odd angle, some of the chairs toppled. She recoils—it adds further to her anxiety—as the light of dusk illuminating the dim room takes her back to a time she would never dare to recall. 

_Oh God, don’t do this to me._

“Sir?” She says, hyperventilating, treading the perimeter of the room. Keeping her panic at bay, she feels it rile up as she hears a faint wheeze, rushing to find Alec curled up, bony hands desperately clutching at his shirt, twisting the fabric around his chest. Ashen, sweat pours down as raspy, strangled breaths leave blue lips.

...

Alec Hardy’s post-Sandbrook mind flashes back to the series of letters he's received these past years, medical forms, various documents that he'd shredded and burned. The heavy tone and somber words growing in frequency make it surprising that he's lasted this far. Sure, some complications occurred during his operation, but he's here, living to see the case through.

Shortly after his diagnosis, he'd promised one thing: _penance_ , he'd said. He wouldn't let his body stop him, just after he gets justice for Pippa Gillespie. Lisa Newbery. Danny Latimer; he owed it to the families, after all. It was enough. Quickly realizing how his mortality looms upon him, he'd distanced himself from Daisy, took the blame; would make it lighter when he'd passed. 

But that is the point of punishment; it is supposed to hurt.

Staring at the thick paper folders, it finally sinks on him that his heart can finally rest; ideally, he would have let it happen, let it give out. Yet—

There could be, rather will be, is; something to live for. Beyond this, with— 

The failing organ in his chest does not care for his sentiment as nausea hits him like waves against Dorset cliffs. Quickly standing up and leaning a hand against the wall, he waits for the pacemaker to kick in, calm the erratic pounding against his sternum; suddenly it flutters, and a fist crushes his heart as he falls.

His chest tightens as he sits slouched against the wall, his teeth gritted in pain as he clutches helplessly where his heart should be, but he can’t feel anything besides the near blinding pain. He can barely breathe, taking in deep rasping breaths that rattle in his lungs like they’re filled with stones. His heart constricts to a strangling tightness, eerily similar to when Lee had slammed him to the ground with a boot to his chest. He feels the pacemaker repeatedly administer shocks, but it does not take its effect; it leaves searing agony when his chest forcibly pitches, making him choke on the air he tries to take in.

The detective slouches more, his chin nearly pressed against his chest, too weak to be able to hold his head upright. He groans quietly as he falls to the side onto the cool tile floor. The pain overwhelms him, yet he finds himself numb to it. Clutching at his chest tightly, it’s long since he lost the strength to keep grasping and clawing at the fabric of his shirt in pain. His eyes are glassy, not registering anything besides the occasional glint of light on the metal chairs. He lies on the ground, curled in on himself as waves of pain radiates through his jaw; clenched loosely, his mouth is parted, trying to heave breaths but he finds himself unable to accomplish even that.

Useless as always, he thinks to himself cruelly, wanting to laugh humorlessly. “H-help…” He wheezes quietly. What would be the point, if no one would hear? The thick walls of these rooms were designed to not let anyone hear anything, weren’t they? It once served him beneficially as an officer; it feels ironic, now that it’s why no one’s going to find him soon enough.

He doesn’t know how long he lays there, it feels like an eternity but realistically, he would have long succumbed to the dark if it really was so. In a short glimpse of relief, he hears the door click open and a muffled ‘sir?’ in Ellie’s recognizable softness. He wants to call out to her, but all he can let out is a wheeze to try and let her know that he’s here. It’s like his head is underwater, when he hears panicked shouts, feeling someone’s hands gentle on his shoulders and neck. He feels Ellie’s warm hand gently tap his cheek as his body sags, hands catching his back.

“It’s ok- we- hospital-” he hears Ellie say above him, words cutting out as his head lolls to the side, feeling his eyelids grow heavy. He blacks out a few seconds at a time, he can’t form a single sentence coming from Ellie’s mouth.

“No, no, n- you stay wi... Hardy- think a- Paul!” He hears her say in a jumble of words, his eyes widening slightly when he hears the vicar’s name. Suddenly he realizes that he probably won’t make it out of this, to go home, to see him again; panic grips him further as his shallow breaths quicken, crawl toward a scream, his heart threatening to jolt outside his chest.

Everything is blended together around him, the usual clear image of Ellie and the other detectives, now blurry around the edges and the colors mixed together in a sickening blend. He moans quietly when he’s lifted up and brought somewhere, the warm air of summer making his skin sticky with sweat; he can’t help but prefer the cool tile floor he was suffering on. He feels a small pinch in his arm, sending a flash of heat through his veins. Something is pressed down onto his face, his breathing becoming infinitesimally easier; the sensation, he realizes, is far too familiar. Ironic that it should be that way.

He wonders if this is how he’s going to go. If he were to be brutally, fatally, honest, by the way everything has been since Sandbrook, he’s seen it coming. No one there to see and never having a chance to say goodbye–he’s resigned himself to this reality, though his thoughts are drifting to Paul and for less than a moment, sadness takes over the pain. He can’t just go like this, leave things unsettled when they had so much to look forward to–

Eyes fluttering several times, he wants to lean back and close his eyes—succumbing to it, he feels guilt screaming in his chest. As his world goes dark, all that he thinks is _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,_ as he feels his heart cease to beat. In his fading vision, the chaos only increases around him; being unable to move, to speak: he has never felt as alone as now.

…

The familiarity of being with him for months makes her aware of what’s happening as Ellie bolts outside, screaming for officers to come in, for _someone to call an ambulance, he’s having a heart attack, and for fucks’ sake get someone here, please_ ; someone radios for a medic as several uniformed personnel enter, gently laying him on his back. Ellie taps his cheek as he crumples, she presses her fingers to his neck to find his pulse, thready, faint; hardly feeling air from his mouth adds to her anxiety.

“It’s okay, we’re taking you to the hospital, it’ll be fine-” Alec’s eyes flutter as his head falls sideways; he’s fading, and hope saps away, tears daring to fall.

“No, no, no; you stay with us, Hardy, please, think about Paul!” To her relief, his eyes peel open, towards her they’re glassy—it will be a matter of time until he goes under again. His breaths quicken as he clutches his chest, choking. The room grows more frantic, though a stretcher finally arrives as they lift Alec’s skinny frame onto it. Suddenly a line is attached, a mask is placed over his face: it’s too familiar a scene, though the anxiety that he won’t make it out of this overwhelms her. She follows them outside, doors closing; she stands on the pavement as the sirens fade into the distance.

Trembling, she sits on a nearby bench as dusk begins to fall–head buried in her hands, she breathes heavily, trying to contain a scream. She shouldn’t have left him by himself. What if I didn’t find him? She thinks, as the sight of the detective, crumpled on the floor, etches itself on her memory as she shuts her eyes tightly.

Usually, this time of day was a calming sight; yet Ellie Miller cannot allow herself to wallow; she calls a cab for Dorset County Hospital, doesn’t bother to wait for change as they drive towards the A&E ramp. The silent atmosphere of the entrance breaks when she bolts inside, asking the triage staff about _Alec Hardy, recently rushed here, collapsed_ ; a pit forms in their stomach as she sees their expressions become uneasy. 

They usher her to a doctor; having been in charge when Alec was brought there. They update her in a private waiting room, the somber tone hailing nothing good. Sinking back into the chair provided for her, her heart twists when she realizes what she has to do, tears silently falling into her lap.

A few streets away, Paul Coates receives a phone call.

…

It’s in the sacristy as Paul removes his stole, he had just finished a series of confessions from earlier, when his phone rings; Ellie Miller. Promptly—he does not think much of why she would suddenly call—he picks up, crackling static and her familiar soft voice breaking through.

“Paul, please come here.” The desperation in her voice worries him as he paces around the room. In the background, he hears a hospital intercom—experience tells him it’s nothing good. It can’t be—

“Alec? Where is he?” Panicked and overcome by quickly rushing thoughts, he goes to dispelling his anxieties first. All he wants to know is that he’s fine, though the silence from the other end feels like a weight on his shoulders, waiting for him to crack under what he fears–yet knows–he will hear.

“Paul, listen to me, I’m at Dorset County A&E. Alec just had a heart attack and they don’t know if he’ll make it past 24 hours.” The sentence leaves him speechless, unable to move; it’s as if the world has left him behind, making it impossible to keep up. Shock creeps up his system as he threatens to retch. Unable to talk, he invites her to continue.

“I’ve spoken to the physician-on-duty, and they’re asking if he has anyone he’s connected with. It’s something they think we both ought to hear.”  
“Didn’t he get a pacemaker recently?” He wants to try to even understand, but there's more he seems doesn't know; he feels further left behind. He feels his body tense as he inches towards the door.

“You need to be here, please.” The line goes dead.

The vicar stares at his phone in disbelief for a few seconds. It couldn’t be true– he tries to convince himself it’s a sick prank that Ellie decided she would play on him. But then the panic sets in, rushing through his veins and burning like fire.

Paul decided he could forego driving, there was still traffic and–despite wanting to think otherwise–if this really wasn’t a joke, he needed to be there as soon as he could be, _fuck the car_. Fortunately, the hospital is only a few streets away from where he’s at right now; he runs down the short distance, silently thankful that this had happened on the night of one of his meetings; by now, it should have ended a few minutes ago.

Sprinting down the pavement, he’s grateful that the way was mostly clear as he shouts quick apologies to passersby he bumps into. Desperately catching his breath, he stops outside the doors of the lobby, trying to look a little less disheveled—if he were being honest, he needed to stall: the thought of entering the white walls emitting an antiseptic odor, scares him of the unknown he does not want to be revealed to him.

“Alec Hardy? I’m related to him. Someone informed me that something happened?”

Hopefully, this was all a misunderstanding; he debates with himself as he’s led through a series of corridors—the sterile atmosphere makes him shudder. His internal monologue falters as they reach one with several closed rooms and as he gestures the vicar inside one to the right. Entering, he inhales sharply when he sees Ellie seated, her elbow propped up on her leg unable to stay still, bouncing up and down sporadically. He had desperately hoped this would have been a cruel joke, but just the fact that the detective was here was enough to tell him it wasn’t.

“Ellie,” He breathes out and that seems to bring her out of her anxious trance. “Oh thank God, you’re here.” She says quickly, and they stood there in awkward, worried silence.

The vicar swallows convulsively, walking forward stiffly as he sits down in the chair. It wasn’t long until there was a light knock at the door and someone he could only assume was a doctor, stepped into the room. Smiling tightly at the two of them, Paul’s heart pounds in his chest, he had seen that expression enough times that he knew it meant nothing good.

“As both of you know, Mr. Hardy suffered a heart attack earlier today, normally this wouldn’t have caused many problems but this one was severe.” Unnerved, she shifts. “It seems that because of it, it has caused Mr. Hardy’s pacemaker to malfunction, and we do not exactly know why.” She says with a grimace and Paul swears that his heart stops when he hears those words. “Upon arrival, the attack deteriorated into cardiac arrest and it took us seven minutes to resuscitate.”

“S-so what does this m-mean for him?” He stutters out, and his blood runs cold when he sees the doctor’s regret-filled expression. He does not even try to guess, worrying his worst fears confirm themselves. 

“We still are unable to determine the full extent of the damage caused, he’ll need to undergo more tests once we stabilize him. As of our earlier assessment, his condition has significantly deteriorated from putting off the pacemaker implantation for a long period, such that it would be risky for him to undergo other procedures." A pause, though it does little for their struggle to process the words. "The next step we can take will have to be a transplant. That said, we fear that the pacemaker would not be able to manage his further episodes.”

“How much time do we have?” The detached, professional conjecture only does but add to his confusion laced with worry.  
“He likely has about half a year left, at the most. Currently, we have placed him on a list, but by this rate, it may become weeks. ” Cursing silently, he berates that for being the only thing he’s heard but cannot comprehend. Suddenly, he feels a void opening up beneath him as he falls endlessly to oblivion—all they see is his body tense, roughly stand up, lips tensed to restrain expletives.

Paul pushes past the doctor roughly, a lump forming in his throat. He wants it all to be simply a bad dream, a scenario he’d managed to conjure, that the tears flooding in his eyes mean nothing. Out of habit, he subconsciously makes it to the chapel; as he makes it through the entrance, he realizes how often he comes here before administering someone’s final rites. As if white-hot, he recoils as his hand lands on a pew.

“Evening, Father.” A familiar face, a frequent parishioner greets him at the entrance, as he replies with a weak smile; he can’t let them know, it’s like telling himself it’s all _true_.

“Here to visit someone?” He quietly nods, being aware of his eyes, stinging red, as they travel towards their hand patting his back. Trying not to turn away, he’s forced to recall that there’s a person who should be here, now—

“I don’t want to ask further, but I send my thoughts and prayers, surely one would think you’d turn to that.”  
Thoughts and prayers. He appreciates the sentiment, yet he feels himself falling fast, withdrawing the faith he’s tried to guard over time;

Carefully, he walks over, kneels down, bows his head as tears fall onto the wood. He can’t dare raise it; to stand up to a reality where he might not make it through the night, lay defeated fighting for his life. Yet he dares, lifts his eyes that land on images of God, one who would grant mercy; maybe if–

If the Almighty could listen to me, I intercede, please– he is alone in his thoughts, yet his throat strains–

help him.

In all of the turmoil wracked in his mind, he waits for an answer.

He is greeted by silence. Despite being in the same building, he has never felt so far away from Alec as he is now.  
…

It’s when Ellie finds him knelt with his head bowed down, as she helps him regain his bearings at the chapel entrance. Quietly, they make it through quiet, hushed corridors, until they reach his room, the detective’s name posted on the signage beside it, making them shudder. He finds himself unable to enter, taking a quick glance at Ellie, anxiety wracks his mind. 

It would be wrong to assume to think that he didn’t want to see Alec—he desperately did. Yet to open the door, heeding the words he’d heard earlier—it would make it all real. Yet, wouldn’t it be inevitable, regardless of what path he took? Was to love, mean that one would remain in ignorant bliss? If anything, it was at this time Alec needed him most. 

The door feels heavier as they enter the room; cold, sterile air greeting them. It was dim, save for the monitors that surrounded the bed. It unsettled them how still he was–there were multiple IVs hooked up to his arms. He had a mask on, yet his breaths were labored and uneven; though unconscious, his eyebrows were furrowed in pain. Heavy-hearted, they both approach as they take a seat.

“You know, we closed the Sandbrook case. He could’ve been celebrating right now–”  
She flinches as she looks towards Paul, frowning softly when she sees the tears glistening in the vicar’s eyes. Without thought, she wraps her arms around him tightly, Paul returning the gesture not a second later, his face buried into the shoulder of her obnoxious orange parka. Ellie rubs her hand across his back soothingly and the delicately built dam breaks as he sobs quietly.

“Fuck, Ellie…” he hiccups, baring his teeth to try and keep the sounds at bay.

“I do-don’t know what to do, I-I there’s nothing I c-can do!” He says between sobs and Ellie feels heartbreak: she knows how much they mean to each other, how much Alec has changed just from them knowing each other. She didn’t know what to say to the vicar, her throat being a trap of cotton, her voice caught in it.  
“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” He whimpers into the loudly-colored fabric. After a few deep breaths, he eventually pulls back, ruffling his fingers through his hair, flashing a tight smile towards Ellie, an expression of gratitude; strained to a breaking point. He would have wanted to stay, had it not been for a soft knock on the door that tells them it’s the end of visiting hours. 

Taking off into the night, he stares at the clear sky. Though he knew his lover had hated the way it stretched to eternities, he would’ve wanted to see it with him. The wide expanse was adorned with stars– though none could compare to the one he loved with all he was, he remembers that stars, in all their light, fade away to dust. Heat burns his eyes, wondering if this was a message from above.

…

Exhausted from being kept up by the thoughts that prevent him from sleep, he arrives at the decision to tell his frequent parishioners that he’s dealing with a family emergency, they are free to call him when he’s out and if they need anything. Even so, he hopes that no calls make it to his phone; he didn’t know if he could bear to listen to other people’s problems when he had his own, didn’t want to know if he would suddenly break into tears.

An invisible hand slowly tightens its grasp on his throat each day that he visits Alec, the wave of emotion chokes him, keeping him on the seat placed beside his bed. Trying to distract himself from the worn-out, frail sight of his partner, he watches machines read out information he couldn’t comprehend but an unsteady heartbeat, he listens to what would normally be calm and quiet breaths, rasp and rattle in Alec’s chest.

The detective is paler than normal, the vicar wants to say _as a ghost_ , but he knows well enough how cruel God can be at times. Regardless, it’s a better alternative to what one would realistically call on—or rather beyond—Death’s doorstep. 

He tenderly holds his hand, holds on as if trying to thaw the icy cold of his still palm. Holding as if waiting for the slightest movement. All he feels is a faint pulse threatening to stop if he’d let go. 

As if the truth were a weight, it sinks, deep into his chest, when he realizes any day could be his last. 

Ellie sometimes comes along; the nature of her work does not spare her, though she makes the most of small avenues of time sparingly scattered across her schedule. She enters the room, realizing that Paul had stayed behind.

“You were here all night.” He quietly nods, not wanting to explain further. He sat, tiredly leaning on the bed rail.

“How is he, did anything happen?” The long hesitation it takes for him to reply is answer enough to Ellie. 

The next few days, Ellie ends up being the one visiting the two of them, Paul had begun to linger behind, staying for days on end, just watching Alec for any sign he would get better. Afraid that Alec would slip away in his absence, alone. 

It’s after a quick shift when she makes her usual visit, knowing that her friend hasn’t slept or seemed to take care of himself over the days he’s spent at his side. When she enters the room, she sees him as usual, hunched over Alec, him never leaving his sight. He’d become as disheveled as the former detective himself, the bags under his eyes more prominent. 

She purses her lips tightly. “How have you been doing?” He perks up, sudden noise jolting him. “God, you’ve got to go home, take a nap, wash up. I can’t let you end up neglecting yourself as well.”

“I can’t, Ellie, it’s that…” He trails off, desperation, and anxiety at the thought making it difficult for him to explain. “What if something happens when I’m gone?” Slouched, his hands rub across his face, as she softly frowns, not even needing to look around to know what he had meant.

“Surely, he’ll be fine–” she’s cut off by a glance from him that tells otherwise; though she remembers being there as they’d give updates on Alec’s condition, it fills her with doubt. Reluctantly, she sits beside him, another chair placed at his side. “He wouldn’t want you being like this. Or do I have to drag you back yourself?” 

Rubbing her hand across his shoulder, she argues, feeling guilt knowing how much he cared for Alec; yet she keeps her resolve; she cares for him as a friend, and he needed to be kind to himself, even with what had happened. He stiffly gets up from the visitor’s chair–he’s stayed there longer than he can recall, the shift making him uncomfortable as he makes it to the door, looking back at Alec. 

“Stay safe, I’ll keep you in touch.”

…

“I’ve looked over the results you’ve sent me, it’s not looking good. Why are you doing this?”

“Penance.”

If this was the afterlife, he didn’t expect it to be like this. As if to berate him for all the events that had led to this point, memories flash end-to-end, a film he’s damned to view for eternity. Yet he feels himself sink, the angry current he’s grown accustomed to swallows him again, as his vision turns white.

In a haze, he feels himself return to reality, the familiar sounds of a monitor reading out his unstable heartbeat. Crawling back, he comes to, his blurred sight overtaking the many cables and wires all over his arms; the sterile white walls and tiled ceiling only tell him that they’ve barely managed to bring him back. Eyes traveling the unfamiliar environment, his sight falls onto a neon orange blob he can only assume is Ellie. The relief that he’s made it through that whole ordeal, washes over him temporarily, taking over the numbing pain in his left side.

For a while, it remains quiet; the loud orange blob unmoving–she does not seem to react to his presence. Calling her out, his throat’s raw; it hurts, his jaw unable to cooperate. It takes a few tries until she notices and goes closer, hovering above him,

“Shh, Hardy. Do you need anything?” His eyelids are heavy; closed, though he knows that he probably looks even worse than usual. She shouldn’t be here, seeing him like this.

“M sorry." Sorry that my heart gave out at the last second, we could’ve celebrated, he thinks, and cannot say, the force of strong medications barring his mouth.

“Nothing to be sorry about. Twat.” He can't clearly see her expression, though he thinks deeply that it would have told differently.

“How's th' case?” It’s difficult to talk, he notices that his chest feels tighter, that he can’t seem to catch a deep enough breath, each inhale rattling in his ribcage. What he can assume is a cannula across his face, whistling oxygen does not seem to alleviate that. “You nearly died on me, you know. Not as if… never mind.” He’s staring at the ceiling, though he knows she’s rolling her eyes at him.

It’s as if there’s a weight pushing his body downwards on the mattress, as he struggles to turn his head toward her. Slowly as he tries to stay awake, he realizes he doesn’t know how long he’s been out. “Ah yeah, where’s—he swallowed thickly, trying to catch his breath–Paul?” It’s a question he genuinely wants to know, but his heart slowing down tells him that he won’t make it to the end of this conversation.

“Had to.. Home… stayed… you… days…” He feels himself falling back as her voice becomes more muffled. As darkness engulfs him once more, he hopes he’d visit soon, there were so many things he’d left unsaid.

…

It’s when she forces him to go home and shower–the first time in two days he's gone from his side–that Alec rouses from his exhaustive slumber. It wasn’t for long, though– Ellie relayed over the phone that Alec barely spoke, slurring a few apologies and asking when he could return to work and where Paul was before drifting back into unconsciousness. “Stubborn, that knob is.” He knows that familiar jestful tone, though the crackle of her voice towards the end of their conversation says differently. He visits shortly, carefully thumbing Alec's palm.

"I'm here." That's all he manages to say, his chest tight as a tear falls on his hand covered in gauze; it does not spur him awake.

Salt stinging his eyes, he tries to compose himself. “Ellie told me you finally woke up today, sorry I wasn’t  
there–” he smiles to himself, brushing Alec’s fringe back.

“I was so close to losing you, it was so hard, Love–” The dam he’s tried to keep upright threatens to fall apart, holding his cold hand. He wanted to deny they were living on borrowed time, but his thready heartbeat that needed help to work properly made it seem true–

For now, he could believe otherwise, as shaking fingers weakly clasp his. The detective’s eyes barely open, trying to take a deep breath.

“I’m alive.”

“You are.” Relief courses through him as Paul tenderly kisses Alec’s forehead, blinking away tears of joy. The moment, though surreal–had been brief, as he drifted off. Pulling away, Paul sees as for how long it has been since then, a smile had made it once more on his partner’s face.

At that moment, he wanted to thank God.

It’s over the course of a few days when he slowly regains his consciousness, slurring words, and attempting to listen to their attempts at conversation. It worries them, however, when he can barely lift his head, too breathless to accomplish even a simple sentence. It’s several more before he can stay awake for a few hours at a time, the drastic change putting Paul on-edge. A mere week ago, he would have to beg Alec to sleep more than a few hours a night, and now, it’s all he ever does, as if the fatigue accumulated over years of police work had finally caught up with him.

As more time passes, he hardly improves; they’d try to lighten the mood, talk with him more, although the task of even that–getting up, facing them– was nearly impossible. It becomes routine for him, they’d visit, he'd hear about their day, go past the nearly monotonous round of hourly checkups. He silently berates himself for drifting to sleep during a conversation, lying awake beyond visiting hours, his only companions the muted sounds of equipment, a clock ticking down the moments he’s left: the weariness that never leaves his side tells him there isn’t much.

Among the chaos that is the world spinning as they’re stuck in time, the only thing that does not seem to change is Alec’s instinct to pretend nothing has gone wrong, smiling gently and reassuring–rather attempting, Alec cannot see their anguished expressions–everyone that he feels fine; the level at which his pain medications are being pumped into him tells a different story. He’d caught on, though.

The visit that afternoon is withdrawn, they’d skip over the topic glaring at them, the reason why the detective had to stay here in the first place.  
“How long did they say I had?” 

“Alec…” The detective tries to sit up, arms giving out in the process. Denial slams the vicar in the face, as he sits there, unable to say anything. Unable to state it as fact; it terrified him to think that Alec had concluded he was–

“Whether we accept it or not, my heart isn’t up for anything, so–”

As if a switch was flipped, tension leaves Alec’s body as he sunk back into the bed. Paul can only watch helplessly as coughs racked his body, robbing him of air–he hears raspy wheezes deep from his chest as Alec doubles over, gasping and clutching his chest. The monitors start alarming, as staff rush inside the room. It’s as if everything has reverted into slow motion; he sees them huddled over Alec, handling various lines and monitors that barely seemed to help. It terrifies him seeing Alec's head lolls, blood running down his lips, as they push Paul out of the room. 

Was this it? He feels his entire world crumble as people enter and exit, a sudden weight sinking him down the wall as glimpses of disarray meet his eyes with each instance the door opens, the sound of alarms echoing from the hallway. Hot tears roll down, everything happening so suddenly overwhelms him; it feels as if it was an eternity until solemn footsteps make it in his direction. He quickly stands up, his bloodshot eyes face the doctor he had grown to know to emerge from the room. He brought his hands up to his face, pressing his palms into his eyes and rubbing roughly to try and get rid of any stray tears. She does not seem to mind, try to notice–the woman smiled somberly at Paul, understanding how rough this had to be for him. The hesitant pause she takes, reveals her dislike of the reason for her current visit.

“He’s not…” He didn’t want to make assumptions, for fear it would be true;

“There is one thing we need to tell you."

"Earlier, we’ve looked over ultrasounds of Mr. Hardy’s heart, and we noticed that the pacemaker looks as if it wasn’t inserted properly. We don’t know how it happened, but this could very well have been a factor in his heart attack…” She trails off seeing as he has a hard time following through the conversation. Suddenly, they're in disbelief; he thought that it was fine now, that it was surprisingly anticlimactic, considering how he’d seen Alec poorly mask his fears about the risks the procedure would entail.

“What happened earlier was that Mr. Hardy had another episode, though the pacemaker misfired, giving us no choice but to turn it off. Mr. Coates, I apologize but at this time, there’s nothing we can do to help or alleviate his condition.” Suddenly everything goes still—he feels time crawl to a stop, water flooding the hallway as he chokes.

“We’ve put him on a transplant waiting list as you know, but besides that, we’re just able to give him medication to help with his pain. There’s, there’s really no reason to keep him here any longer, we can ease him off the painkillers over the next couple days but we see no reason to keep him in if we can’t help…” She says apologetically, looking at him for any signs of fainting or aggression.

Paul swallows convulsively, nodding stiffly as his muscles were locked in ice, the chill rising up his arms as if the frigid cold was overtaking his body. The doctor laid a consolidating hand on his shoulder and looked at him with the stoic expression he recognizes from Alec. He wonders how many times he’s had to relay words like these over years of detective work.

“We’ll provide you equipment to help him manage easier, I’d go home and prepare for the changes though.” She whispers softly to which Paul nods again, feeling his face heat up from barely-restrained tears.

“There is one more thing,” she says hesitantly, knowing that this would not go over well no matter how gently she said it. 

“The surgeon who was in charge of the surgery has offered to cover any equipment costs you need to care for Mr. Hardy. Though I know it doesn’t help what you are going through, there's nothing we can do that can fix what has happened.” She finishes, grimacing, waiting for a reaction from the person standing in front of her, feeling guilt writhe in her chest at the numb, quivering nods she receives in acknowledgment. The doctor leaves without a dramatic flair or swish of her coat, though the vicar feels like this would be one of those moments if it was a show. 

The door feels leaden as he pushed it, seeing Alec staring, expression as if he knew about everything that had just been said. Suddenly, the vicar feels himself falling apart, his heart threatening to break open from his chest.

Alec looks towards Paul with a sullen look on his face. His chest trembles as he tries to take a deep breath, the struggle bringing him to tears. “Oh love…” He says quietly and Paul looks up to see tears shining in the detective's sunken, hollow, eyes. He hates how he's here to see him like this, to be in this situation;

“I knew this would happen, just a matter of time.” The vicar takes his hand in his, breath hitched when he sees his palm is streaked with blood. Hearing Alec’s heartbeat becomes more erratic, he looks on to his partner. The retired detective weakly shoots a glance at him.

“There’s nothing they can do, can they?” 

“I swear on my own heart, darling, we’ll make it through this, somehow we will.” Paul mumbles determinately against Alec’s skin. He feels how thin his hand had become over the course of a few weeks, he holds it delicate.

Somehow, Alec knows deep within his broken and stuttering heart that Paul is wrong. He desperately wants to prove him right, but he wants to laugh humorlessly at his lover’s statement. In all the years he had been alive, he could count on one hand the times something had worked out for him. He doubts if this would be one of the times.


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHORS’ NOTE: Trigger warning for suicidal attempt towards the end of the chapter. Please proceed with caution.
> 
> Thank you for having looking forward to the update! This chapter was very challenging to write, though it was satisfying to have finally published it. Please give feedback, leave a Kudos! -Gozenichiji
> 
> Gozen and I have been yelling over DMs about ideas and making each other cry, so please comment and leave kudos! Thank you - LemonChomps

Waves crash, the salty breeze blowing through his hair; he feels heavier than lead, pondering what he had said that morning.

_I swear on my own heart, darling, we’ll make it through this, somehow we will._

In all the years he has taken refuge in who he has formerly known as a merciful God, he wonders if his faith could make this true. If it could defy the gradual collapse of an unsalvageable heart—

As he sets aside the idea that this would need to happen more often as time goes by, Paul reluctantly pushes the door of the pharmacy—his hesitance to enter adds to the weight of the glass door. Behind the register, a person greets him with a cheery voice and a smile definitely too cheery for this place—greatly contrasting the internal battle of his emotions spurring inside him– it adds to his throbbing headache from sickening fluorescent lights, making everything too bright.

He walks past adjacent shelves of candy and hair-care products, making his way towards the counter where he’d passed over prescriptions for the last year and a half; he’s reminded of his frequency in this place through a pharmacist that he would usually recognize. He’s greeted by name—that’s until his memory betrays him, as he guiltily glances at the name tag—it makes him realize that all that occupies his mind is the ordeal of even stepping in, of doing what he has to. 

He still can’t admit it, even with a stack of written prescriptions in his hands. He’d went to numerous appointments, getting these written–even as they’d explained further what was going to happen to Alec in the upcoming days, and the purpose of these.

The pit of his stomach refusing to resign the truth only retorts, as a solemn expression is plastered onto his face. The man in front of him only catches on. receiving the prescriptions, his usual polite smile twisting into a frown. It only worsens the uneasy feeling in his stomach; he still hasn’t gone over the words he’d barely even been able to process, more so what the contents of these notes even mean.

It’s unsettling, waiting as he sees him turn towards intimidating stacks of bottles and blister packs, anxiety reaching a bursting point when the pharmacist returns with a large tray, carrying various boxes and canisters. In an instant, time crawls to a standstill as he tries to will his eyes to betray him. Sight overwhelmed, it only confirms his horror;

 _They were far too many_. Surely, this definitely means–it cannot be–that the person he loves with everything he is –

He can only stand, stare, as batches of each were placed in multiple paper packages, the quantity–let alone the possible combination of medications he’s unfamiliar with–overwhelming him, his heart struggling to keep up. Handing the man from across the counter his ID; his vision blurs as he’s handed the various medications.. His ears ring from shock; he can hardly listen as instructions from the illegible notes are relayed to him.  
He can’t need this much to get through months, weeks, days. Does this mean that he’s–  
Even after multiple consultations alone, staying weeks at Alec’s side, he refuses to answer the query, to give into reality. Trying to flee the walls that close down on him, he rushes towards the entrance–he gains an awareness that he appears as if he’s shoplifting, but he has more problems to deal with than that.

Hands trembling, he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to push open the door– luckily he’s able to. A tightness around him chokes until he retreats to his car, slamming the door as he haphazardly tosses the prescriptions onto the passenger seat–he does this staring ahead, the passenger seat a space that reminds him of who should be there, sitting by his side. As if it were trying to cling to him, images pop up, of how Alec had been since his attack, kept barely alive, constantly exhausted–the pressure of taking him home to–

He can’t think like this. His knuckles tighten their grip on the wheel, as he leans his head on the leather as if they’d disappear once he’d rid them from his sight. Leaning his head to stop his tear ducts from running, he restrains himself from pressing further and honking the horn.

It feels like it has been for days until he slowly lifts his head and looks up through–the heat behind them hardly faded–bleary eyes. Through stiff fingers, he shifts the car into gear, glancing at the heap of packages next to him with a frown. With hesitation, he pulls onto the road. The rest of the ride is in silence, as Paul tries to fixate towards the horizon, alienate the thoughts that never leave him. He almost succeeds; that is until he reaches the blue cottage they’d just begun to call home.

Basking all of this in, he nearly forgot that he had to clean everything before the detective arrived home tomorrow–usually, he’d be excited when Alec was finally discharged after an incident, but now, he had to set up numerous equipment, store the copious amounts of medication that Alec would need. He didn’t need reminding why.

Seagulls cry in the distance as he unlocks the glass doors of their shared house on the pier. With muscle memory, he swiftly does this with one hand, the bags managing to fit in another, their weight an added pressure in his chest. Through the unlit space, Paul surveys the clutter that was a reminder of how they were, how they’d used to be.Getting onto cleaning, he shakily takes in a breath, rearranging anything blocking pathways in the house, picking up and putting away some of the random things strewn on the floor. He tries to get it over with quickly; wallow as he’d clear the chaos, defying who they were.

It didn’t seem that crime would ever leave D.I. Hardy alone. Alec’s papers, case files, transcripts, reports, were strewn over their dining table, overflowing in random cabinets around the house; the map of Sandbrook hastily taped onto the wall, a reminder to him of the last case he’d worked the last time he was here. Rumpled blankets left on the couch take him back to nights falling asleep, watching a movie that neither of them wasn't truly interested in, occasionally talking the dark away; Paul recalls staring at the stars on Alec’s face, illuminated by moonlight and the faint glow of television static– he recalls falling asleep–a luxury to him–to that sight. The chaos in this space they’d call home was a sign of how they’d spent whole days together.

His eyes try to avoid the liquor cabinet in their kitchen, a lock firmly put in place–even though he clearly remembers having disposed of the key, he doesn’t want a time he wishes not to recall–it would just add to the turmoil he’s in, more so the temptation to crack the door open, take a break from–

He shakes his head in silence, remembering why he hated the lack of noise–there was the lingering tendency that his thoughts would disrupt him. Usually, he’d tune in to a playlist to pass the time, but the way things were now, he felt like any sounds besides the occasional rustle of movement would cause him to break down. He clears the table and stacks the papers—it feels wrong how it should be someone else who would do this; it had been a common thing in their house for him to nag the detective to get this all cleaned up– but not like this, not this way. 

He accomplishes the rest of his circuit absentmindedly–after what seems like an excruciating amount of time passes the vicar swallows anxiously, admonishing the spotless space: it looked unlived in. The blankness makes an uneasy feeling writhe in his chest, the emptiness of the room resembling a void; he starts wondering if this was how it would look like when he’s–

Averse to the very thought, he looks towards the now-empty corner beside the couch, he had cleared it to give room for Alec’s crutches and wheelchair–something he had learned he would need as the weeks progressed, his condition continuing to deteriorate. When it would be obvious that he’d–

He didn’t want to think of the possibility of all of this happening, lips pursed to pull whimpers from slipping out. Grief overwhelms him, overcrowds the vacuous space. Averting his eyes, his sight falls at the worn wood of the kitchen table where they had shared so many meals—at the center was the basket that held containers with various pills. Alec had no use for them anymore–its only purpose a reminder to when he had once needed them.

_This shouldn’t happen._

That’s all he thinks, gritting his teeth, tears falling from tightly shut eyes. The vicar grabbed the basket, throwing it against the floor, letting out a guttural scream. One of the bottles shatters open as greyish-blue pills scattered across the wood floor. The noise of the other bottles’ clattering rattles against his skull as he presses hands to his ears.

In the tension of the moment, where his emotions finally escape the dam he’s held back for weeks, all he can seem to do is sink down the wall as his knees buckle. His hand reaches up to run through his hair, as he feels teeth sink on his other; he’d bit his knuckles to control his sobs. Hot tears rolled down his face as he embraced his knees tight, alone. 

Alone in the deafening silence of their room, finally being able to let go of everything he had been holding in. Trying to gasp for air, his hands tremble, shoulders convulsed with shivers. It takes what he can only assume is hours until he calms down, sniffling and angrily wiping tears with his damp sleeve. He hates himself for having given in so easily, after all, he wasn’t the one who was–

Trying to rebuild a facade of strength– rather, poorly masked denial, he tries to sit up. When he feels his tears stop flowing from bloodshot, streaked eyes–mostly that he can’t shed any more–he slowly gets up; standing on shaking legs, he stumbles over towards the sink, cool water splashing onto his face as he tries to rid the heat and uncomfortable stiffness.

Dastardly things, he always found that they always came with crying. He looks guiltily towards the scattered bottles and tablets across the floor–it’s as if he’s destroyed the last thing that would remind them of what their life used to be. Stiffly, he bends over, picking up the basket, placing the unbroken bottles back inside, and setting it on the counter. Reluctantly gaping back at the greyish-blue pills, he gathers them in his palm–he can’t help but stare as he drops them in the trash bin. Picking up a nearby broom, he can only sigh as he sweeps glass shards.  
He looks towards, and wordlessly, he opens the paper packages, setting the bottles down on the counter, untouched, plastic seal unbroken. Glancing over the instructions glued onto them, his throat tightens at how many there were, how unfamiliar they were. Rapidly, he feels a numbness spread throughout his body as he tries to organize these, stowing away the packaging as he stares blankly at how they’d occupied nearly the entire space.

_This shouldn’t be happening._

The ordeal comes to an end as the clutter in their house dissipates, everything set to make it easier for Alec as the time comes by. Paul glances around the house interior once more–ignoring the nagging lack he sees present, nausea settling in his stomach as he realized how much had changed. The vicar turns around, walking out of the doors and locking them behind him. He looks up at the never-ending sky; sighing deeply at the large expanse that Alec declared its hate to, it fills him with dread to go back to him; bed-ridden and on Death’s doorstep.

_This shouldn’t have happened._

_Why God?_ He asked, desperately wanting a clear answer. The wind blows, the same as many days past. The waves crash, as it has longer than he’s learned to question.

…

Nightfall approaches as they sit with multiple documents, paperwork that needed to be signed, as Alec would–they both approach the topic with reluctance–reach his final days, detailing what he wanted and didn't want to be done. Though he knows that each decision ends with his consent, himself unable to interfere, it hurts, puzzling him as Alec accomplishes normally difficult questions, grappling with life-or-death decisions, as if it's routine paperwork. The fact that the detective thought about dilemmas concerning his mortality hasn’t sunk in yet–he does not know about the will he had written before his operation. 

Regardless of the efficiency the detective goes through these, they arrive at a crossroads where both stand still, unable to process the words on the page. Throughout an explanation in complicated, stale terms, it confirms their fears that they'd eventually decide if they'd have to turn off life-supporting devices, pacemakers included in these terms.

Hesitantly, he glances over to Alec, hand clasped tightly with his.

"Love–he pauses, unable to look up–it’s up to you. The doctor said that it’s not entirely useless. It could help, but there’s no guarantee.” The vicar mutters, face morphing into a bitter expression. Alec knew that Paul blamed the surgeon that had botched his surgery, but he couldn’t find himself to find him accountable, mistakes happened all the time and this was just another one, not that he could expect anything different in his pisspot of a life that was going to be over anyway. A barely-even-a-life where only three good things had ever managed to happen to him, one of them off to his left watching him, unable to accept the consequences he’d contemplated for years.

Alec turns his head towards him to smile softly, but the sight of his face makes Paul’s breath stutter. What the detective thinks is a grateful smile that would normally have made his heart melt, Paul saw as an ashen, gaunt face framed with sunken-in eyes, bags under them dark, a weary expression under the facade he tries to put up. The man sitting in the small cot rubs his hand across his forehead, trailing his fingers down to rake through his scruff, unkempt from the days he’s been here.  
“The chance I’ll be able to get a transplant within the next few weeks is slim, I’d rather not go through the pain of keeping something with me that wouldn’t even help,” Alec says quietly, an unusual, dejected lilt taking over.

The casual tone of his admission burns, as Paul sees the world slow down around him, feeling himself being frozen in place, helplessly watching from the other side of a cage as everything sets in. Alec had thought about this. Hadn’t he said it himself, that he’d had the knowledge of it happening? That someday, his heart would give out, and he’d–

Part of him wants to stand and yell at the man for leading him on if that was the case. But the other half of him knows that the detective didn’t plan to, he wouldn’t have gotten the pacemaker if he was. All of this happens in the few seconds he watches the pen lower, as Alec signs his name in agreement to keeping it off. He feels himself sink further into the ground, unable to scream as his partner signs a contract leading to his own end.  
The fist closes around Paul and he feels his chest constrict, watching as Alec gathers all of the papers with shaking hands. He stacks the papers neatly, years of work filing reports making it second nature to him by now.

“Be honest, love, we’re just living on borrowed time.” Alec manages to get out until his breath hitches, a few sheets slipping from his weak grip, falling to the tile floor. The vicar’s pulse jumps in his throat and the heat behind his eyes is reignited.

In the time they had been together, he had never seen Alec drop files. It had been like a weight had been placed atop his chest when he realized that this was all very real; not a dream or a cruel joke from fate. Once again, he wanted to ask–why?

If there would be no answer in return, what would be the point? ... 

The car ride home is done in silence; Alec had fallen asleep upon getting in. Paul feared of startling him awake, of letting his guard down, let it be obvious he can’t accept any of this now, that Alec was to come home to–

He’d heard it from the detective’s own lips, though he can’t admit it to himself. Paul clutches the steering wheel tighter, leather digging into his palms. He doesn’t notice that they’re home until he pulls the brake–it makes him realize how the route to their home is so familiar to him. Taking a few deep breaths, head leaning on the wheel, he tries to keep his hold on reality before he gently shakes Alec awake. He takes off both of their seatbelts, gets off the car and to the other side to help Alec walk the extra meter to their door–the trip from his room to the parking lot had been exhausting.

Lifting his thin form only adds to the vicar’s worry–he’s too light, yet moving as each limb was made of lead. Alec’s labored breaths seem to emphasize that, as they barely make it across the entrance, as Alec’s legs started to buckle. Slowly making it through their home Paul leads him to their couch, carefully helping him lay down as he immediately drifts off to sleep. Looking back, he notices how worse off Alec has been since they’d helped him onto the car seat; the detective hasn’t even begun to notice the changes in their home. He doesn’t notice as the vicar sinks down the wall next to him, curled up until slivers of morning make it through half-open blinds.

Few days passed without major incident; it had somewhat felt like how it was before they landed in the circumstances they were in. Alec would always insist that he was fine, nothing to worry about–he tries to ignore how he needed to hold on to furniture to keep himself upright. Regardless, it had felt that it had minimally made an impact on their lives. Surely, Alec had been sleeping most of the day, had to comply to a strict regimen of medications, but other than that; Paul had genuine hope that they could make it through this, that for the stubbornness he had, he’d defy his odds.

For all the time that he has spent with Alec Hardy, he still falls short of sight, failing to the detective’s tendencies to pretend he’s fine, to deny the changes occurring to him.

It was so Alec Hardy of him that the vicar was convinced that barely anything had happened, that they would sink back into regular life soon enough. He looked no worse than when he had left the hospital, maybe even a bit better. His eyes were no longer sunken in and swollen, his coughing fits no longer having any blood, it allowed him to have hope. Then, like it always is for him, the hope was snatched away from him.

It’s a week after he’s discharged from the hospital that it happens. The detective is seated on a chair overlooking the pier, he broods in the distance, towards the horizon he’s openly declared his distaste for. Over these days–he’d refuse to admit–he feels himself deteriorate further, suddenly what was once fatigue, became a weakness that followed him everywhere he’d gone; symptoms catching up to him; he tries to bear them–they didn’t seem to be fatal anyway. Coughing up more blood, pretending to sleep, so that Paul couldn’t see that he could barely stand even with support. The last thing he wanted was to be a burden, it was all he was ever good for with Tess; he refused for Paul to see him like that.

He’d invited her here though, if anything, she deserved to know, deserved to say goodbye. She sat on the ledge across him; it takes them back to the afternoon after his operation when they were supposed to see each other for the last time.  
He looks up, taking in a deep breath. “We finished the case. It’s done.” He slouches as if the weight of the case was being taken off his back. Nodding in agreement, she didn’t know if Alec noticed, but he’d ended up looking worse off than she’s ever seen him. Wasn’t it _no more broken heart_ now? Admittedly, she didn’t want to invite Alec back in her life, didn’t want to show concern, yet–

“How’s Daisy?” He asks her, the tone wistful. 

“Well, she misses you. She’s applying for university soon.” Flashing back a small smile, she didn’t want to tell him that it had become a debacle in our home–she hardly spoke about him under their roof, it created conflict between her and Daisy. 

Alec’s heart sank, however. The thought that she was growing up right before them, and without him– all it does is create an emptiness in his chest; he had so much he could have lived for beyond this.

He quickly stands up; disregarding how his legs tremble. “I can’t take this anymore.” 

She rushes over, offers him a hand, but he recoils, nearly falling over. “Alec, please–”

He climbs up the steps, arms shaking as he holds onto the door frame. Each step shoots needles up his arms, nausea washing over him as he topples at the entrance, chest tightening as he feels his heart trying to keep up. Tess is hunched over the detective until Paul sits him up against the steps. She watches as Alec produces a blister pack from his jumper, taking in two tablets before staggering to the couch. As soon as they're all seated, the air quickly grows hostile. 

“What are you doing here?” He hisses, eyebrows furrowed in annoyance. Feeling a weak hand on his shoulder, he turns towards Alec, his gaze softening at Alec’s apprehensive one.

“I invited her here, Love. I need to tell her what’s going on…” He explains, a tremor in his voice giving away how much he hated the situation he was in.

“Which you still haven’t done–” She interjected, her arms crossed and her gaze showcasing her impatience. It’s astonishing, Paul always thought, how she managed to think she was better than the other detective, regardless of any situation they were in.

“I’m dying, Tess. My heart's run itself down, and they sent us home—there's nothing they can do to help.” He says, and she stops in her tracks, looking at him in shock, her mouth had dropped open slightly, trying to process what he said. Paul freezes as well, they hadn’t said it out loud yet, Alec’s statement the final nail in the coffin for him. Suddenly their fears became more real, he didn’t have much time left, and there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop it.

“You have to promise me not to tell Daisy, she can’t know.” Tensing, he continues determinedly. Tess appears as if she’s about to open her mouth to object, but something in Alec’s fiery expression stops her. She nods in reluctant acceptance, a guilty grimace on her face and Alec sighs defeatedly, his eyes closing momentarily like even just talking had worn him out

“Bloody hell, I, I don’t know what to say! How long do you have?” She asks, her voice cracking.

“Doctors say it could be a few weeks, but no longer than six months. They’re considering a transplant, but I-" He gasps, as both of them look on in worry, "–doubt I’ll make it to one.” He responds breathlessly, and Paul watches on, each word spoken feeling like a punch to the gut. Weakly, barely a whisper in the air, he continues.

“I hope you’ll tell her the truth about the Sandbrook case. Someday, she deserves to know.” Tess looks away, guilt obvious in her stance as she hunches over and swallows convulsively. The bed-ridden detective isn’t expecting much and he takes a sharp breath, letting out a faint wheeze when he sees her nod jerkily. They stay like that, looking at each other in silence for the better part of a minute before Tess shuffles nervously and looks at Alec, worn-out.

“Goodbye Alec, when… when you do go, I hope there’s no pain.” She says before looking at Paul for the first and last time since he had awoken.

“I’m sure you’ll take care of him… but I still have to ask that you do, I’m not that horrible of a person no matter what you think.” She continues before turning away, not looking back as she leaves, closing the door behind her. 

Staring as if he wanted to say more, Alec faces Paul, tears gleaming in his eyes. He quickly embraces him, face buried in his shirt as he lets everything out, sobs muffled through the fabric. It was all over, ties cut; though he knew he’d want nothing more but to be with Daisy, he knew it would hurt if she knew.

…

Hardly evening envelops their home, as Alec looks towards the ventilator that had found a home on the floor beside their bed, his face morphing from one of annoyance to one of spite. The defiance that had flickered like a candle flame in his chest had gone out, his hope fading like smoke. He always knew he was going to die, it was never a question of how old, but rather how soon.

Even though nothing had ever gone his way in life, he had hoped that it would be quick, he wouldn’t feel it and it wouldn’t hurt. Now he was suffering from a burning in his chest that left him struggling for air, his legs too weak to walk more than a few steps. He would have to watch Paul, as the vicar looked on and lost hope slowly. To him there was no reason for him to keep going, to sit helplessly as he succumbed to death slowly, painfully, as his lungs gave out on him, heart following soon after. He wouldn’t let himself allow Paul to watch him die, it would damage his already broken heart even more.

He’s been awake the entire night, lying curled up with his back against Paul’s chest and the vicar’s arm wrapped around his waist. Paul’s breath tickles the back of his neck as he slept–normally it had been soothing but now it kept putting him on-edge. He looked towards the doorway that led to the kitchenette and the small living room; he normally would have been able to move the vicar’s arm and get up, but ever since he came home from the hospital, his partner had been a light sleeper– any sound that was out of place put him on his feet, checking on the detective.

He immediately regrets taking in a deep breath, as his lungs strain, pain shooting through his chest–he struggles to hold in another coughing fit. Gently shifts towards the edge of the bed, he maneuvers his arm off of Paul as he tries to stand. That tiny bit of movement makes him out of breath–he wheezes quietly, the detective using the nightstand to hold himself up his knees shaking from the exertion. He stumbles over towards the doorway, bracing himself against the wall when he makes it. The kitchen is dappled in the moonlight from where it shines through his glass doors, rattling breaths having gained wetness to it as blood becomes trapped in his throat.

Towards the counter, he walks slowly, using the edge as a railing as his legs threatened to give out. He stops in front of the basket, starting at the pills that he used to take, useless now that he was dying. The taste of copper is bitter in his mouth as he reaches out a trembling hand to grab the painkillers he had kept from after his surgery. It takes him three tries to open the bottle with numbing fingertips–he fears he won’t make it as legs tremble, wheezing continually getting louder as both of his hands are occupied–unable to hold onto the cold granite for support. Eventually, half the bottle makes it into his hand, as the other set the plastic container onto the counter. Staring at the tablets, they blur as tears pool in his eyes.

He thinks about Paul still asleep in his bed–guilt crashing through his chest, he leans even more on the counter. Whimpering quietly, he bites his lip as hot tears stream down his face. He didn’t want to leave Paul, but there was no reason for him to stay alive if he was going to die anyway. There was no point if he was going to be just a husk of his former self who could barely keep his eyes open.

Unable to breathe as blood flooded his mouth, he chokes as he feels it trickle down his throat. As if trapped in slow motion, he can only watch, as his hands give out, pills clattering on the ground. Trying to brace himself against the counter, his eyes dart at the mound on the floor, and his hand misses– stumbling down, he lets out a yelp as his hip slams into the ledge. The pain from his back scatters as he crumbles to the floor.  
If the loud exclamation mere seconds earlier hadn’t woken Paul, the quiet explosion of the sound of his body hitting the floor definitely did.

Curled up, he’s splayed on the floor as tears stream down his face and he coughs, blood splattering on the tiles. The pills are spread out around him, making him groan– he didn’t want Paul to find out what he had been planning–he would try and rid the evidence, but he couldn’t move. He winces when he feels footsteps come his way; looking from the edge of his vision, he feels guilt curl in his throat as he sees the vicar freeze, stare at the crumpled form in front of him. The detective coughed again, blood leaking out of the side of his mouth; it formed a small pool on the floor, the metallic taste and odor permeating his mouth and nose.

Shock overcomes him when Paul jumps out of bed at the faint noise in the kitchen; he finds Alec not next to him, but on the floor, struggling to breathe. Surely he didn’t–

“Alec, oh my God…. Please don’t tell me you swallowed the–” His eyes widen at the tablets scattered around the floor, and ice-cold fear claws like a rabid animal in his lungs.

“Didn’t. My fucking body wouldn’t let me.” The detective hisses, his hitched breaths containing a low rumble.  
His heart only threatens to leap out of his throat; it chills him as he realizes in an instant what Alec was planning to do. “Why?”

“I can’t go like this, I want to give up.” He laughs, a painful smile through his glassy eyes.

He grapples at guesses he doesn’t want to make, restless, he pleads for a reason why the detective would want to leave him now. “You can’t think like that!”

“Soon enough, I can. I’ll end up worse off than now. Better if I’d off myself.” Paul’s face goes blank, fear and helplessness grab a hold of his heart and he feels his hope flicker, snuffed as if it was a candle daring to shine against void-like darkness. It’s like his body is frozen, his veins turning to ice and unable to feel anything.

He wordlessly approaches Alec–his heart coming to a standstill, panic gripping his neck, as the detective flinches away, a hand extended to him– he recognizes it as an instinct that Alec had never completely gotten rid of ever since Tess. The vicar approaches him more slowly this time, making sure to be gentle as he hoists Alec to his feet, his heart barely trudging along as he hears the detective cough wetly–blood running down his chin and dripping onto the floor.

He leads the stumbling, weak man over to their bed–it takes only a few steps until he practically has to carry him. Overcome with thoughts, he makes his way to the bathroom, taking one of the small towels from the shelf under the sink, running water over a part of it. Returning to Alec’s side, he gets down on one knee, wiping gently at the rivulets of blood staining his mouth and chin–he hasn’t managed to get rid of all of it, his stubble still colored a deep red in some places.

After a while, he leans forward, resting his forehead against Alec’s own. The two of them don’t stay like that for long, Alec soon slumping down the pillows propping him up, his back giving out from weakness, as Paul watches as the detective’s eyes flutter closed. The only reason he doesn’t reach for his phone to call 999, is the slight grimace still painted upon his face, that’s how he knows he’s still there. Regardless, he makes sure as his fingers press against Alec’s neck; his shallow breaths concerning him.

With a quiet groan under his breath, he gets up; walking into the kitchen, he stares at the mess before him, fear coiling around his throat–it makes it nearly impossible to breathe as the question is posed in front of him again.

 _What if he had done it?_ The question repeats itself, that tonight, he may have–  
Using the same towel he had cleaned Alec’s face with, he furiously wipes away tears that fall onto the tiles, he scrubs at a small pool of already coagulated blood from where he had found his partner curled on the floor. His sight falls on the white tablets scattered on the floor; some of them crushed, from when the detective’s body had landed on them.

He picks up each one and deposits them back into the bottle– he promptly pockets them; if he’s thrown them away, he wouldn’t trust Alec to dig through the trash to search. Looking through the rest of the bottles on the counter, he hides them in a cupboard; that way, he’d only be able to access them when Alec would need it during scheduled times. A waxy knot is stuck in his throat, his mind wandering back to the events that had unfolded.

As he’d probably have done the same–though he doesn’t want to think deeply into that–it makes it difficult for him to place the blame on Alec. That said, he decided against telling anyone–the last thing he knew both of them would want, was for the detective to spend the next–most likely his last–few weeks stuck in a ward. The conflict spurring once again inside him only threatens to make him resign to facts–something he’d find a detective to be familiar with. Staring at the granite counter, Paul struggles to believe that Alec is–


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHOR’S NOTE: Thank you for following along! We have edited Chapters 1 and 2, so we encourage you to read these first.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: Graphic depiction of alcoholic relapse for this chapter and onwards. Proceed with caution.
> 
> It’s been long since the last update, isn’t it? I hope you guys are well-rested, safe, and continue to look forward to seeing how this story goes. Also. Peep the ending of Chapter 2 with the start of Chapter 3. -Gozenichiji

Dying– in Alec’s mind, he knows it’s something his partner refused to acknowledge; reality betraying the bubble of denial he’s built up, though for the retired detective, it’s a familiar he’d once welcome gladly, though the realization continually hits him:

There’s more that he could have lived for beyond his cases. The failing organ in his chest, thudding away to an eventual stop, does not care for his sentiment. Regardless, it had quickly become everyday for them. Days could be counted down by hands accepting the inevitable, but if they could do at least one last thing, the retired detective wishes to resolve the Sandbrook case; true to the penance that’s placed them in this race against time.

“She forgives you, you know. For the pendant.” He can’t let that remain a lie that he’d tell himself until the very end. 

Drifting in and out of sleep, he ponders upon flitting thoughts–his partner clutched the wheel, desperately praying to a god he started to doubt existed. They’d been driving back to South Mercia, the reason a visit; rather than to quell demons of regret that continue to haunt him–unlikely they’d leave anywhere soon in this lifetime–but, to at least grant peace to a child he couldn’t save back in the river. 

In a blur, they pass through groves of trees, numerous towns– as they approach a large iron gate, Paul gently wakes up Alec as he pulls the brakes. 

“We’re here, love.”

“Aye.” The detective looks ahead, a gaze of hesitance, hands anxiously twisting his jumper– despite the slightly warmer climate, he’d felt too cold for the past few days. 

“You’re okay with this?”

“Yeah, ‘m. Promised ‘er after the case.”

“Really?”

“Sure, that’s if I didn’t drop dead then–” He manages to gasp out a laugh, his chest heaving and leaving him in pain– exactly what Paul had feared; he remembers having argued with Alec for a while. Though he couldn’t find it in him to even sit up, he’d kept his stubbornness. They’d attempted this for the past week– this was the third try, the first where he hadn’t passed out from the physical exertion. Over the few days since his episode, they'd been going to regular appointments– it had been much more difficult when he started lacking the strength to even climb in. His clothes had practically been hanging off his frame, their predicament becoming difficult to ignore.

“Don’t mind that, ‘m fine.” He says hoarsely, rubbing his chest. He was pale, cold sweat clinging to his skin. In absolutely no condition for a long trip, yet he had persisted with the feverishness of one who would never forgive themselves if they’d never make it.

Doubtful, the vicar disembarks the car, opening the back to reveal a folded wheelchair and a bouquet of bluebells– Alec had requested they’d buy this for their visit–it having been exactly two years since her death, the date carved permanently in his memory. Unbuckling the passenger’s seat belt, he gently lifted Alec–praying he wouldn’t pass out on him–onto the wheelchair, placing the bouquet on his lap.

Grass crunches under his shoes as they pass by headstones in various degrees of decay–revealing tests of time, both literally, and in the form of borrowed time one had in the memory of those who had known and loved them till the end. As one whose responsibility was to oversee sacraments, to observe the community in the fragile states of new life and death, this sight would have been a dreary yet familiar sight, though it’s the current reason for his visit that causes his reluctance. 

Even climbing out of the car had been exhausting, as Alec finds himself nodding off as they traverse the area. It haunts him as he sees fellow visitors in the distance, the clear mark of grief shown all throughout– if one were to think about it in a certain way, those who once were had occupied the space of many people, yet what had been left of their mark on Earth was a plot of barren ground.

They find Pippa’s gravestone soon enough–Alec had remembered how it had used to be filled with flowers, cards, flocked by the press; now the plot was overgrown, some bouquets on the side of her gravestone, wilted, her name carved on the marble was worn, moss growing around the sides. 

“What’re you doing there?” A woman is also there, crouched on the damp grass–she turns around to see who’d come to pay their respects–glaring bitterly, a mixture of shock and anger. She stands up, eyes surveying them. 

“He’s with you, why? Is it pity?” 

“He finished that case–” Paul retorts.

“I’m just saying. After what he did, ruined my family, took Ricky away, we never found the killer for two years! Two years, having lost evidence. My girl, it… You deserve all of this, DI Hardy. If what leaked about your health’s true–as I can see, most probably–” She trails off, scoffing.

“I hope the end’s cruel for you.”

All during the time they’d travelled here, the vicar had thought that Alec would have a reply, let out how it had been this case he’d literally–and had literally–worked himself to the grave for. He remains silent, a bouquet of bluebells somberly passed to her.

“I don’t think I can do it myself, maybe if you could instead…” He glances at her sincerely, guilt being clear through his eyes that usually wouldn’t communicate what he’d truly felt. 

“You know, maybe. You can have a minute alone, she loved visitors, you know.” Gently, she puts the bouquet down, roughly wipes a sob as she walks down the path, uncertain. 

Alec recalls when he’d visited before leaving for Broadchurch–he’d vowed penance. He owed it to the families, but for her, as well. "Erm–he clears his throat–I was the one in your case…" He trails off, nervously shooting a glance to Paul. 

"I can't do this." It softly drizzles, raindrops gracing the bluebells, it takes him back to that day– "I never knew you personally, but they’d told me you were an amazing person, many people missed you.” His eyes start to burn, just as when he’d found her. He remembers seeing her face down in the river, floating. Against a second thought, he jumps into the frigid water, sinking as the river swallowed him up; suddenly he’s back, carrying her against angry currents as if they still had time, ignoring as his heart would skip a beat–

“You were my daughter's age, you know? I couldn't let that go, tried to solve it even after losing the pendant. I'm sorry I failed you." He chokes back a sob, hands trembling. She was Daisy’s age, he had found out. He remembers working himself to the grave, hearing about the loss of the pendant. He’s at court, witnessing a trial he’d give everything up for. Rain pours down his hands, the screams of the families he’d failed wracking havoc in his ears. Glances of anger burn off his back– he understands why. He took the blame for its loss.

"Rescuing you from the river, I felt your weight in my arms. I saw how water destroyed you, how–his voice cracks, tears pouring down– How could someone do that? The fact that it had to end that way, that it had to be someone who you trusted.” He watches as his name is engraved: Senior Investigating Officer, responsible for the loss of major evidence. The weight of penance falls upon him, as the dizziness and fatigue he’d felt for days strangled his chest, an unfamiliar feeling at the time. Now had been like then, he’d realized, the fact that he never had much time left had always remained. He sees himself fall, succumb to the darkness. Alone.

“There was more you could have had in your life. I wish– I could've done better. When I see you soon, I hope you'll forgive me." They stare like that for a quiet moment, until the sound of footsteps signals the end of their visit. 

“I can’t understand why she'd be angry at you. You did your job.” Alec looks up to see his partner reluctantly stare at the graves. He tries to look ahead as they approach the iron-wrought gates that mark their exit. 

As soon as Paul enters the driver’s seat, Alec mumbles under his breath. “You were like Cate, to be honest.”

“Since when?”

The detective leans farther in the car seat. “You’d blamed the one who was responsible for the operation. It’s not worth getting angry over that, eh? Just another mistake that happened. There was nothing they could do before this.” He spat out breathlessly–bitter at what was left of his life had become.

“So you– You led me to this point, knowing that you didn’t have much time left? Don’t compare me to her.” He lashes out, releasing all the tension he’d kept since they’d been forced to make literal life-or-death decisions. The detective doesn’t reply, speechless. 

“She was a grieving mother, unable to accept she was gone.”

“I’m not–” He stops himself before this would escalate further. Was he grieving? In denial, he turns to the passenger seat, only to see Alec passed out–it makes him frown at the thought of how exhausted he seemed to become over time. Gently, Paul helps him lean back on the backrest as hesitantly, he pulls back on the road–occupied with the thought of their exchange, he does not notice as the sky turns golden.

Lanterns illuminate the night sky as they return home–disembarking the car, he’s only able to take Alec to the bench beside the door until his body gives out. He crouches in front of him, gently shaking his arm. The retired detective’s hazel eyes slowly open–they were now glassy, the fire behind them long extinguished. Paul flashes him a slight smile, carrying him back to their room. As Alec falls back to sleep, he feels heat flare in his eyes as he retreats to the kitchen.

“God, I’ve experienced too much of that in my arse of a lifetime, people promising they’d help! All these elaborate words, help would never come. Always questioned God then, since that day. Had a drink or two, couldn’t sleep. Slept the whole time…” Cate had rambled on, eventually slurring, tripping over her words–it brings Paul back to a dark place he didn’t want to return to. 

The cabinet, concealing strong liquor he’s vowed to stay from–only a few meters away–glints in the corner of his eye, it makes him think. What if I eventually become her when Alec–

…dies, being left to waste away. Across the window, he asks to the sky in the same way his partner had shouted his abhorrence towards its great expanse. 

_What kind of a God would allow that?_ What had been denial, had now been a deep frustration; all that he had believed in, had somehow refused to make sense. Wouldn’t he try to console himself with the teachings he once found refuge in? What would be the point if they didn’t make sense? The questions flood in his mind, a barrage of noise–he wishes he’d got out of it sooner when he finds himself toying with the padlock.

Through eyes that struggle to look up to the heavens, stars in the sky flicker the same, unable to provide an answer.

…

Each day, whatever was left of Alec’s strength flew rapidly; what Cate had said on that day seemed to have created a chain reaction, aggravating the ticking time-bomb in the detective’s body. Ever since he’d nearly taken his life that night, he had promised Paul that he’d stop hiding his predicament–it didn’t prevent him from attempting to do things that he clearly had become unable to do. Over the next few days, his physical decline became impossible to ignore–each cough becoming more debilitating, much more blood coming up than what they’d anticipated. 

A return for an appointment clarifies that parts of his heart have atrophied, thus blood that it wasn’t able to pump anymore accumulated in his lungs. They’d recommended for him to use supplemental oxygen that they’d provided, though defeatedly, he had kept–through labored breaths–refusing those: unable to see the point, trying to deny that he'd run his body ragged.

They had to catch up with appointments, rigid regimens of tests–it confused Alec, why they’d want to witness in real-time the collapse of an unsalvageable heart–what would come back as numbers and diagrams on paper, were laughable to the lingering agony he’d felt each passing day. For someone who’d said that there was no hope left– it being inevitable that he’d no chance of making it through this, he finds depressingly humourous the concern she’d show during these check-ups. It was at least, more bearable than the pitying looks he’d receive from passersby who’d think they wouldn’t notice. Soon, he’d grown to recognize the nurses there–they’d notice how his condition worsened each visit–his experience as a detective making him able to see something else beyond a kind, professional gaze.

At some point, Ellie had come along, tried to help out as she’d tagged herself along through these appointments. As the weeks progressed, it wouldn’t leave his line of sight how her normally cheery and bubbly demeanor gradually dampened–the same could be said for Paul, since that night he’d nearly given up. The appointments become more of a chore than anything, watching through glassy eyes at Ellie’s grimace when she has to help Paul bring him out to the car. His muscles are practically useless now, unable to make it around the house without his crutches and even then he struggles with his trembling legs. 

The only worthwhile part of the meetings is the arbitrary updates on his position on the transplant list. It climbs each week, a cause that makes him allow hope to flicker in his broken heart. 

It’s after his fourth appointment when he wakes up feeling as if his head is submerged underwater; he doubles over, coughing and gasping for breath, his vision fades around the edges. Blood runs down his chin, as eyes, red from lack of air, look up at his partner, whose expression is closed off; his eyes tell otherwise, tell of lingering helplessness from the inability to fix the situation they found themselves in.

He smiles tightly when he puts the mask on for the first time that night, the look of relief on the vicar's face enough for him to bear the embarrassment. He’ll never admit that breathing becomes infinitesimally easier, the blood still curdling in his throat but at least it doesn’t rasp like it used to. 

Reaching out and trying to help, Ellie had decided to come along the next day, per usual– it was the weekend, after all. She shows up at noon, reluctantly knocks at the glass doors; the door unlocked, she enters, realizing that Paul needed to attend to a service.

“I told him, I didn’t need someone looking after me." Covered in blankets, he sits slumped on the couch, brows furrowed. Her eyes travel to the coffee table, littered with blister packs and bottles– she frowns, seeing Alec struggle through a poorly-kept facade of stubbornness. It had once been a point of annoyance for her, but now she was placed at a loss. Even with help, his breathing was harsh, he’d looked even worse off than but a few days ago, the last when she had checked up on them.

"Don't you have kids, Miller?"

"Won't pick them up at the child minder's until tonight. Are you okay, though? Have you—"

"I'm bloody drowning, Miller! I can't even breathe properly without—" He points to the ventilator positioned below him, "-that thing." He sighs, ending up in another coughing fit; Ellie's eyes begin to wander to the only increasing amount of medications. 

"They hardly do anything now. It's only been getting worse, since then. All I’m going to be is a burden, I can’t see the point...”

The fact that Ellie hadn’t been berating him for what had happened, adds to his guess that Paul hadn’t disclosed anything–if anything, it only tightens the guilt constricting his chest. 

…

His voice echoes from the stone walls of St. Bede’s–the long period of time he’s spent by Alec’s side makes him unaccustomed to how sound bounces off towards a far distance, as muttering crowds join in before he starts his sermon. 

“Many events have befallen the town, we could say. We have, each and every one of us, have gone through trying times. Sometimes, we question God, we ask why? We ask, what kind of God are you to allow this? But, let us all, try to remember this passage from the Gospel. The Lord is a source of refuge, and we must freely approach Him, to have hope.”

Hope– he feels it wither away, eroding with each passing day. He’d do his best in caring for Alec, making sure that he was as comfortable as time would allow; yet he can’t help but feel that he can but watch helplessly on the sidelines, as Alec’s condition continues to deteriorate. The thought that something would suddenly happen if he left the detective’s side terrified him–he’d stopped going to his weekly meetings, in the fear that he’d pass in his absence, the fear that he’d be alone, without a chance to say goodbye. His mind an unsealable wall, he feels it slowly falling apart; it crumbles down when they arrive at a point where Alec becomes unable to breathe properly without help. It makes it too real, that–

…Alec’s dying; they don’t have much time, and there’s nothing they can do.

“But how could we say this? The Gospel hardly mentions of hope. Instead, let us reflect, instead on the miracle of the Church, of the Sacraments, of what had made people believe, and make one feel safe. Sometimes, I too, wonder about the ways that God works, but I say to you, we must all never forget to place our trust in Him.” 

Over the time that has passed since, one constant in what their old lives had once been, had stayed– that being Alec’s unwavering stubbornness amidst the circumstances they were in– he’d find it obstinate, endearing and Paul has found it reassuring that at least that aspect of Alec hadn’t changed. That could be said, save for when he gives in–Paul tries to convince himself that this is good, he’s finally listening, using something that is meant to help him. But his heart twists, the old Alec would have never allowed himself to listen to someone– it simply wasn’t something he thought he was capable of. 

He stares at the incense-soaked pages, unable to comprehend the words he's stood for all this time.  
…

He lays awake staring at the ceiling that night, his thoughts rolling in his mind as silent tears fall for the first time in weeks. He hadn’t allowed himself to show weakness; he was supposed to be strong, to show that he was fine in the face of death, but the dam had cracked. He listened to Alec, his breathing soft and lacking the rasp to it that he had grown accustomed to, his eyes burning as tears continued to roll down his cheeks. 

That day had been the breaking point when Alec had become reliant on oxygen–it was a frightening step that took them a lot to accept. If he could quietly admit to himself, he was scared to imagine if he could take any more.

Shakily taking in a breath, he made sure to be as quiet as possible. Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he shuffles to the kitchen; his eyes lingering on the place where he had found Alec sprawled on the floor only but less than a month ago. Approaching the space that held liquor he had sworn off, he didn’t know what he was thinking when he’d been tempted to– it fills him with fear, but more prominently guilt. He crouches down, pulling the key out of the waistband of his pants and unlocking the cabinet. The nearly void-like space that greets him as the door swings open overwhelms him; in an instant, all of the memories he had of the work he put in to overcome his addictions rushes back to him, as if throwing it all away. He bites his lip to muffle a whimper and his throat burns with guilt. 

He takes out a heavy bottle–the label faded from age and neglect tells him it’s wine, something he knew he hated. The turmoil of disappointment, desperation, despair he feels in this moment nearly knocks him over– he makes it a point to make it the worst experience on Earth. Uncorking it, he grimaces at the sickly, sweet smell–it makes his empty stomach clench when he closes his eyes, leaning back to take a sip. 

Never again. 

The taste is familiar, slightly sour, smooth as it courses down his throat–it’s a series of small, restrained sips until he feels light, floating, safe– His body is overcome with numbness, the way his vision blurs at the sides. Dastardly things, he knew they always came with alcohol. He misses the sensation, guilt chewing at his heart as each gulp gives him a glimpse of euphoria. Tears coming to a halt, he feels the lead from his insides melt away as he continues to drink. Time, and the careful restraint he’s tried to protect fades away, as he tips the bottle to take another sip. To his despair, nothing is left, the bottle empty. In a sudden surge of rage, he nearly strikes it against the counter–shattering it, yet he halts. I’m not grieving, am I? Alec can’t know–

He opens the cabinet, eyes tempted to avert in guilt, the musty smell bringing him back to a time he wouldn’t dare to recall. It wasn’t that crowded, his only hope to put the now-emptied bottle near the back. Seeming the only possible option at that time, one would only need to shift a few bottles to uncover the evidence. His movements careful, panic sobering him; just enough that he would be able to control his volume, refrain from making any noise. He attributes it to the anxiety of being caught, yet partly because the flitting, numbing ease had gone; he realizes how much he had missed the feeling, it adds to his sudden temptation. 

He stumbles his way back to their shared bed, still being aware to be careful as he slides under the blankets, his eyes already half-shuttered when his head hits the pillow. Sleep overtaking him quickly, his eyes welcoming the darkness as the burning ceased for the first time that night. 

_This would end all in the morning, wouldn’t it?_ He hopes; from all the times he has fallen back, he doubts. 

…

The disgustingly familiar sensation he wakes up with, surprises him when he wakes up–he’d thought he’d never have to experience it again. Yet–he refuses to admit–some part of him missed it, the pounding in his head, the way that air moved around him seemed too loud. He could say otherwise for nausea and the uncomfortable sloshing of booze in his stomach. It makes him roughly stand up, rush to the bathroom–it jostles Alec awake, his eyes open to see him enter the bathroom. 

Hunched over the toilet, he finds himself retching, emptying his stomach of everything it had drunk last night, his throat raw from bile and the horrible aftertaste sitting on the back of his tongue. He feels disgusting, inside and out, guilt chewing his stomach and causing him to lean over and throw up. 

“Paul? Are you okay?” He hears Alec’s rough voice ask softly from their bedroom and he stands, quickly rinsing his face and hands before putting on a soft smile.

“Yeah, I just think I might’ve caught a small stomach bug. Go back to sleep, you must be tired.” He calls out. Being met with silence from the other side, he checks on him, panic rising in his chest as he sees Alec trying to sit up. 

“Hon, lay back down it’s okay.” He says softly, rushing over to press him back down gently into the mattress.

“S’ not fair, you’ve been takin’ care of me for weeks, and I can’t even help you when you’re _sick_.” He spat out the last word, dripping with venom and distaste.

“It’s okay, Alec, please just… go back to sleep, I’ll be fine.” He sees his request as maybe, an opportunity to stop drinking–maybe last night could just be a one-time thing. Though even if he tried, he knew the cycle was back up, and he couldn’t stop.

…

He feels himself fall into the same damaging cycle with each passing night– he drinks more, stronger; it makes him crave the way scotch and vodka scorches his throat, he misses how its heaviness carries him light. Soon–though he doesn’t wish to be aware–he drinks a quantity that nearly does both of them over. Alcohol sickeningly sloshing in his stomach, it submerges his head underwater as everything passes in a blur, unclear and muddled. Toppled over, his forearm catches his fall; he rests his head on it. He’s stuck in a reverie–he’s unable to think about nothing but the guilt that gnaws at him inside, thinking about nothing but the weight of a half-full bottle of liquor, straining his wrist– 

A crash from their shared room breaks him out of it– his head jerks upwards, the force nearly keeling him over. As the world is–figuratively and seeming literally–spinning around him, he stumbles inside; in his inebriation, he forgets to leave his bottle on the counter, exposing everything he’s tried to keep–

Across the dim room, he sees Alec on the floor, leaning against the bed; blood spilling over pale lips, mask strewn to the side–his breaths are sharp, trembling, emphasizing his struggle to breathe. Dazed, his eyes blink rapidly, darting around the room until it lands on Paul–the sight makes him visibly relieved before his eyes land on the bottle dangling from his hands. The vicar sees a million emotions make it across his face: guilt, anger, sadness, betrayal, _pain_ – even more than what he’d shown in all these past weeks. 

“Paul… why?” Alec rasps, before submitting to a coughing fit that leaves him wheezing, tears pooling in his eyes, brows furrowed in distress. 

“Wha’ happen’d?” Paul slurs, his voice drowsy. From his blurry and doubling vision, he makes out Alec’s eyebrows furrowing in anger, mouth open as if about to scream. His heart sinks, nausea welling in his chest, when he sees the detective’s face fall slack, head falling back against the mattress– practically giving up before his eyes.

Several seconds before his diminished sobriety prompts him to spring into action, he realizes Alec hasn’t given in just yet–breaths shallowing head beginning to loll to the side in a way that couldn’t have been purposeful. The vicar drops the bottle, alcohol pouring out; it stains the carpet, filling the entire room with the sweet smell that he once kept to himself– rushing over, he drops to his knees at his side, fingers shaking, the liquid in his stomach curdling sickeningly. Panic takes over as he presses two fingers to his neck, pulse barely-there, thready, too fast to count–

Yet he is frozen, unable to act through the fog in his mind. It’s not like the movies, he doesn’t sober up, nor jump into action in an instant; Sitting there, staring blankly for several seconds, trying to process what was happening and what he could do and a million other thoughts that flew through his mind. 

He pulls out his cellphone, almost dropping it too many times with his sweat-slick and trembling fingers. He dials 999, his voice uneasy as he rushes out the address and tells the operator what happened in a rush before he lets the phone go from his grip. He clasps one of Alec’s hands in his own, ice-cold to the touch, limp in his own—all he can do is press his knuckles to his lips and pray to God that his already tattered heart keeps beating.

…

At this point, Alec wished he could just let go. It would be wrong to assume that he’d given up: yet on that night, he fears that it was his partner who had. He feels himself–albeit against his will–crawl back; the senses returning one-by-one. A sharp pain makes it up to his right arm; it’s been long since numbness took over his left. The monotonous drone of a monitor overtakes his hearing. Briefly opening his eyes, all he remembers before closing them was the strong smell of alcohol–it leaves an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

He hears a chair beside him shift, he feels a familiar hand clasp with his. He glances at his partner–the way that he looks back makes it evident that he’d come, drank some. Probably more, hidden away.

“What happened?” His voice is soft, strained; he feels even weaker than these past few weeks.

“You suddenly collapsed, I had to–” His avoidance to the truth is obvious in his movements; refusing to face Alec, when merely days ago, he was never let out of his partner’s sight. He didn’t know why he’d lie, was it shame? The thought wears him down, that last night–

“No, I meant the bottle you were holding. Don’t tell me you have been drinking again–” Save for the blankness of his gaze, a clear expression of remorse tells him it’s true.

"Paul, you could have said something… come to me and we could have figured something out, you could have gone back to the meetings-"

"No." Paul interrupts, his voice as sharp as any blade and ice cold.

"There's nothing that could have helped me, I spent days trying to convince myself not to but I had to give in…"

"You didn't have to-"

“It’s the only thing helping me cope!” He snaps his voice, having a trace of wetness that Alec recognized as tears. As if overcome with regret, he buried his face in his hands, palms muffling sobs. 

The detective couldn’t understand why he chose to torment himself in a vicious cycle: trying to keep strong for both of them, even if it meant pretending as if his problems didn’t exist, taking it out on alcohol. He couldn’t blame it on his partner, though; he felt he was a burden.

If one thing was certain; the state he was in now, the turmoil that was stirring up—he knew it was overwhelming for his partner. He could agree; the idea that they’d had to accept that everything had changed, what they once had was gone;

_This shouldn’t be happening._

It was long past since he had resigned to his fate, but he couldn’t deny the dread that crept up, his anger at the idea that his lover was losing hope, thinking that he himself was beginning to give up. There was nothing more he wanted to reason with God– he could no longer see a point. He’d realized that, longer than he could care to recall.

The next days were an ordeal; Alec had started making a point towards trying to get better; listening to his doctors, being more compliant than he’d expect himself doing—he didn’t hold any hopes that he’d be able to recover. He’d still done it though; he knew this was something that the vicar could be relieved about. It doesn’t help that his condition hardly improves at all; everything that’s developed over this time wracks at him, guilt burns at him once more when Paul’s expression grows more agitated, tempted to escape in liquor-induced safety.

It’s later that week when he hears that Ellie plans to visit–it’s the only day she’s found available, the rest spent in worry after Paul relays the news, obvious as her strained expression speaks of concern behind a cheery facade.

“Hi.” Alec peers his eyes open as the curtains shift, only to see as Ellie’s expression fades when her eyes lie on the bed, just as it has been those past few weeks. “How are you all, did I miss anything?” If any at all, it was the suddenly withdrawn air that filled the room. She doesn’t receive a reply, but the two briefly shoot glances at each other.

“Not at all, really.” Paul nonchalantly says, though Alec’s face curls in slight disapproval. Fortunately, she had noticed clearly, something had happened since then; she shifts in suspended doubt.

“Well, erm, they’ve actually set the date for the Sandbrook court trial. Two weeks from now, they’d said.” She flashes a tight smile at them; energy quickly surges through Alec—if it weren’t for the debilitating pain in his chest, he would have sat up in surprise. 

“Two weeks, f’r God’s sake, Miller! What time–”

“Oi, you can’t just attend, not in your–” His indignant stare, screaming _’s not a condition_ doesn't deter her; yet she falters at the realization hitting her about how downhill everything has been since their interrogation. “I’m just worried. Besides you wouldn’t be able to present evidence–”

“All that matters is that I’ll see the families get justice. We can’t just give up right here, can we?” He wishes he could say so for himself, to keep on pushing forward. It’s merely another two weeks until his penance is finally resolved, another weight finally lifted from his grave.

For once, life had seemed to work in his favor; he wonders if this would truly be one of those times.


End file.
